


The Amazing Devil

by orionstarlight



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Author!Geralt, Ballads and Poems, Dive Bars, F/F, F/M, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Musician!Jaskier, Witcher Modern AU, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22575382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionstarlight/pseuds/orionstarlight
Summary: “Geralt? You okay there?”Julian is leaning against the wall of the club, a cigarette hanging from his lips, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Geralt walks towards him, out of breath ever so slightly from all the pushing and shoving. “Yeah, I just… It’s dangerous out here during this time of night. Why don’t I walk you home, just in case?”The lead singer smiles, putting the cigarette out with his shoe. Maybe his dreams aren’t so far away after all.—————A musician meets an author, and though they have different approaches to romance, they’re blindly in love, even if that means it takes them a few nights before they realise it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 39





	The Amazing Devil

**Night One**

The pink, purple, and blue lights are low, setting the ideal atmosphere for all the young adults in the bar, music playing softly while conversation fills the air. The band is having fun on the stage, soaring freely on the vibrations in the air, putting everyone else into the same groove they’re in. It’s the perfect scene, something so simple about it that just draws people in, and the Continent is quickly becoming one of the most popular underground dive bars in London.

He walks in, white hair bright in the lighting, all eyes on him, whispers making their way around the room. He’s with company tonight, a girl he’s only good friends with, despite what their other friends might think. She’s convinced him to let himself be a little less uptight for a night, even if he doesn’t believe he’s uptight.

She orders two beers for the both of them, whatever’s on tap with a little blackberry syrup in it to add some flavour to it. She’s always been skilled with mixing and matching things until they taste perfect, and he enjoys finding out what new concoction she’s cooked up, even if it sometimes makes his taste buds go haywire. He sips silently, letting her chatter away in his ear, although her gaze keeps shifting away from him and onto the dance floor, where the lights are focused on the adolescents that know how to have a good time.

It takes a few minutes, but she stops talking about whatever she’s talking about, pats him on the arm, and rises from her seat, making her way towards a girl with an abundance of curls that can’t stop smiling and looking at her, their bodies fitting together perfectly as they hold each other and let the music do its work.

He knew this was how the night was going to go. This is how the nights always go.

Women come up to him, as do the men, but once it’s clear he isn’t interested, people stop trying. His eyes stare into the bottom of his glass, wondering what the hell he’s doing in a place like this despite having graduated long ago. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable, but it never feels like it’s where he’s supposed to be. He’d much rather be on the road again, just his motorcycle and him, work nowhere near the picture, but life caught up with him, and he had to adopt a new attitude.

“Thank you so much you’ve been a great audience. Enjoy the rest of your night, ladies and gentlemen,” comes a husky voice into a microphone, and the band leaves the stage with low cheers and only praises. They look pleased, and just as they’re packing up, the white-haired man catches a glimpse of the band’s name of the drum set. _The Amazing Devil._

He scoffs lightly and turns back towards the bar, happy that he doesn’t have to listen to anyone talking next to him. Unfortunately, the universe seems to have no regard for his preferred solitude, and the lead singer slides onto the girl’s old barstool, waving the bartender over. They have a short conversation and then he gives him a beer bottle so he can tend to the other customers.

“Now, I know you think you’re all mysterious with the way you sit here brooding, clearly having lost the person accompanying you since there’s no way you’d come here out of choice, but really it just looks sad,” says the musician, scrunching his nose and giving him a look.

“Hmm. If only I cared,” is the reply, the man turning back to his drink, finishing his second glass in one go.

He receives a scoff, one that’s rather hurt. Clearly, he had not expected him to be that abrasive. “Well, now that is just… bad manners! You could at least have the decency to respond nicely.”

The brooding man broods. Yes, perhaps he could have been nicer with his response, but he’s always been a man who acts before he thinks, and this is just a prime example. Is he sorry about his word choice? He doesn’t believe he is, but the lead singer clearly has some stronger feelings than he does, so he sucks it up and becomes the bigger man.

“My apologies. I didn’t realise you were so sensitive,” he grins.

Okay, so maybe not the bigger man.

“I might be sensitive, but at least I’m not the rudest person in this dive bar, and that’s something I take in my stride. It’s why Calanthe keeps me and the band around. She’s the, um, owner,” he explains. “Anyway, since I’m clearly not getting anywhere with you, I’m going to go home and drink a glass of wine with my cat and fall asleep watching Netflix. And on that sad note, I’m leaving.”

He takes one last swig of beer before standing up, waving goodbye to the bartender. “I’m not good around people. And my name is Geralt, even if it is the 21st Century.”

The other man stops, hands already in his pockets, mind already set on going home, where everything is warm and comfortable. Does he want to sit back down, start a proper conversation with someone he isn’t sure he really wants to get to know? Is it worth putting off continuing the second season of Sex Education for?

“Julian. Stage name is Jaskier though, because I like the eccentric flair,” he smiles, showing all his teeth. “And Geralt might not be a name of the 21st Century, but there’s something about it. I can’t imagine Mr White Hair being called something generic. So, Geralt, why are you here?”

“Yennefer convinced me to actually leave my house and come here, but she’s clearly found new company,” he sighs, motioning over to Yennefer now full-on making out with the girl with an abundance of curls.

“Oh, that’s Triss. She’s here most nights, but I think this is the first time I’ve seen her actually be that friendly with someone. Usually, she gives up halfway through our set and sits down in one of the corner booths with the book she leaves in my music case,” he says, surprised at what he’s looking at, but shrugging it off. She’s never been shy about which way she swings.

Geralt nods understandingly, still a little reserved. Friendly conversations with strangers aren’t exactly his forte. “She sounds nothing like Yenn. Which makes her perfect for her,” says Geralt, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Sorry, I’m bad at this whole small talk thing. You’ll have to forgive me.”

“Trust me, for those muscles, I could forgive almost everything. Seriously, what do you bench?” he asks, feeling his biceps with great amazement. “220? 320? _A horse?_ ”

“No, not a horse,” Geralt laughs. “I can see you’re having fun with feeling me up there, aren’t you?”

Julian coughs and puts his stops feeling the white-haired man up, putting his hands up in an apologetic motion, almost like he’s about to be under arrest. He might have overstepped his boundaries a little, but then again, he never specified which way _he_ swings. He’s very impressed by the body in front of him, and that’s not something he finds he needs to be shy about.

“Right, sorry, you’re not used to me yet. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” The conversation dies down, the music from the speakers talking the words they clearly can’t, silence drowning their ears. What are two guys who have just met supposed to talk about when there really isn’t much they have in common? “Right, well I’m going to go home to that cat and wine like I talked about.”

He stands up, this time going home for sure, not stopping for any man with incredible muscles that he would love to feel up all night and maybe massage with camomile oil too. Still, he doubts that he’d be allowed to, and leaving the bar is safer for both of them. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll dream about him, fantasies running through his mind all night long. And if not, then he’ll put all he’s feeling into a song that he might have the blessing of singing if Geralt ever wonders into the Continent again.

The white-haired man turns to his empty glass, wondering what he could have done to keep talking to Julian, but finding no answer to his question. Has he been cursed to not be able to talk to strangers he actually likes? Is there a cure of some sort? His mind is flooded with thoughts, desperate to know what makes him the way he is and how he can change to make his life just that little bit easier.

That’s when he gets an idea he isn’t even sure is a good idea.

“Fuck.”

He stands up, leaves some money on the counter, and makes his way through the room, which seems to have become more crowded since he first walked in. Still, despite his physique, he manages to slip in and out of the crowd until he makes it to the same door he walked in through, searching the pavement lit up by dull streetlights for the person he’s looking for.

“Geralt? You okay there?”

Julian is leaning against the wall of the club, a cigarette hanging from his lips, eyebrows raised in curiosity. Geralt walks towards him, out of breath ever so slightly from all the pushing and shoving. “Yeah, I just… It’s dangerous out here during this time of night. Why don’t I walk you home, just in case?”

The lead singer smiles, putting the cigarette out with his shoe. Maybe his dreams aren’t so far away after all.

“I’d like that,” he says, really meaning it. “Even though I live right around the corner, I’d like that a lot.” He starts walking, the white-haired man trailing behind a little, rubbing the back of his neck, still debating if this is what he wants to do, even though he’s already doing it.

“They call me Witcher at work, by the way. Not a stage name, but I figured since you shared your nickname, I might as well share mine.” He’s trying. He really is trying to not be awkward like he usually is around people. “Okay, well, it’s just my publisher and sometimes Yenn, but I call her Mage in return.”

Julian chuckles under his breath, his keys jingling in his hand as he flips through them, stopping before a silver door with the number 415 on it. “You know, I didn’t have you pegged as an author. What do you write, Witcher?”

“Fantasy, mostly. Poetry from time to time. Whatever I’m feeling,” smiles Geralt, enjoying being honest for once. He thought he might be a bit embarrassed or uncomfortable, but he feels more at ease and relaxed than he has in a while.

“Well, maybe, if you’re not too shy, you could write me a poem, and I could write you a ballad. Something for something.”

He looks so sincere, Geralt feels inclined to agree, but his mouth just stays agape, as though he’s forgotten what it’s like to speak. He’s never really been in a situation where someone has offered to write a love song for him in exchange for some words on paper, and he doesn’t really know what to say.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he finds himself saying, anything to keep Julian on his good side for some implausible reason.

Julian stays smiling. “Cool. Well, why don’t you give me your number so I can let you know when it’s ready and you can do the same?”

They exchange those ten digits slower than time seems to move, fingers brushing when phones are returned, small sparks disappearing into the night air when they remember to take a deep breath. It’s a friendly action, but with undertones that imply that there is clearly something more lying under the surface.

“This is me. I’ll see you around, Witcher,” winks Jaskier, his body slinking into the apartment building’s front door, leaving Geralt to stay on the street, wind whipping about his long white hair, confused and sated at the same time.

**Author's Note:**

> [my ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/erissapphic)


End file.
